Glass
by Tremaile
Summary: During the War of Power, Barid Bel Medar swears his oaths to the Shadow. Ishamael is not Elan Morin. Asmodean does what he does best... observes.


**A/N:** I don't know why my brain decided Asmodean needed to be there. Probably because everything _is_ better with Asmodean. Anyway. Everything is Elan and Barid and nothing is alright~

* * *

The man called Ishamael appeared restless. Oh, it was nothing so obvious as pacing or fidgeting or constantly checking the time; it was merely something about the set of his shoulders, the way he crossed his arms, the too-casual way he leaned against the wall but refused to sit. Shadows seemed to draw in around him — an effect of channelling the True Power — making him appear untouchable, the silence around him impenetrable.

Asmodean, lounging on the couch, sipped his wine in silence, keeping a wary eye on the other man. He had known Elan Morin — not well but nonetheless — long ago as a student, and had heard of him every now and then along the years when the academic world had been buzzing over his latest writings. And, of course, the entire world had known his name after he had been the first to declare his allegiance to the Great Lord in the Hall of Servants. But Ishamael remained, despite years of working together, something of a mystery to Asmodean.

There couldn't be much of Elan Morin left in the man, of the soft-spoken youth he'd used to be, or the dispassionate scholar. Ishamael had a temper, and when it was unleashed, people died. Yet right now — it could have been just a trick of the shadows, but Asmodean didn't think so — right now there seemed to be an almost melancholy cast to his face.

The sound of a chiming bell alerted them just before a gateway opened at the designated spot over to the other side of the room. Ishamael straightened and took what seemed like an involuntary step forward, and an expression flickered across his face, gone too quickly for Asmodean to identify. A distractingly beautiful, blond woman wearing a streith gown and heaps of jewellery entered through the gateway, followed by a tall, black-haired man, whose handsome face presently held a slightly bewildered look. Kamarile Maradim Nindar, and… Barid Bel Medar.

_That_, Asmodean mused, _explains a lot, and not only about…_ He glanced at Ishamael again; the man seemed to shake out of his trance and nodded graciously to the newcomers.

"Thank you, Graendal," he said, addressing Kamarile by her new name. "You may leave now."

The woman didn't seem happy about being dismissed in such a manner, but wisely chose not to express her displeasure. Instead she just inclined her head slightly and turned to go, shooting a frosty glance at Asmodean — whatever had he done to her? — before Travelling from the room. A silence bordering on awkward reigned for a while after her departure, eventually to be broken by Ishamael.

"Barid," he greeted the other man, extending his hand. Barid hesitated a moment before clasping it. "It's good to see you again," Ishamael added, sounding almost as though he was trying to convince himself more than anything else.

Barid began to nod, then frowned and shook his head sharply. "My ears are still ringing," he said irritably.

Ishamael smiled. "That is an unfortunate side effect," he said wryly. "It will pass. A wondrous thing, is it not? Hearing the Great Lord's voice?"

"That it is," Barid agreed. He studied the shorter man intently, and for a while silence fell again. "Kamarile," he said after a while. "You called her…"

"Graendal," Ishamael said. "She has a new name, now."

"Yes. Graendal." The words hung in the air, heavy with everything that was left unsaid.

Ishamael broke the silence again. "As will you," he said. "As do I. As I'm sure you're aware." The last part was tinged with wry humour again, and Barid nodded, although he looked less than thrilled at the prospect. Ishamael must have noticed it, too. "It won't be that bad. It's not the end, Barid — that will still be a while," he added with a chuckle, as though a private joke. "This is a new beginning. Think about it! No longer Barid Bel Medar, who was ever _almost_ as good as Lews Therin."

Anger flared in Barid's eyes — of course the man who had been Elan Morin would know exactly which strings to pull to make Barid Bel dance — and he nodded curtly. "Very well," he said. No questions, no protests, just… _Very well._

Ishamael turned his back, to pour himself a glass of wine, and as he did so, Asmodean caught a glimpse of his face and what he saw shocked him to the core. How great must Elan Morin's love for Barid have been that Ishamael could still feel pain over his downfall? But when he turned back — gesturing a casual 'help yourself' at Barid — his expression was carefully neutral again, with the faintest hint of a smile.

To keep from staring, Asmodean drained his glass and waved it in the direction of Barid, who was still holding the bottle. "Fill up my glass, too, would you?" he asked, affecting oblivious cheer.

Barid nearly dropped the bottle. "_You?!_" He whirled to face Ishamael, demanding, "He's been here this whole time?" Ishamael merely returned his glare with a bland look.

_Well, now, this is awkward…_ Asmodean cleared his throat. "Well. Yes." He held out his glass. "…If you please?"

Ishamael actually rolled his eyes and took the bottle from Barid and filled the glass. "We can probably get to the point now?" He channelled at a display screen, which promptly became a map of the continent with the latest information on front lines and troop locations. "According to your intel, Lews Therin is moving the bulk of his army here—" He indicated a place on the map with a thin beam of light. "—and Tel Janin will be taking his here." He pointed again, and Barid nodded at every point. "The Hundred Companions are mainly spread between these three fronts…"

Asmodean let the strategy talk fade into a buzz; he knew most of what was being talked about, already, and the rest wasn't relevant to him… Although he did pick up the details and stored them away for future reference should they become relevant. Ishamael talked for a while longer, but then it was mostly Barid doing the talking; it was easy to see that this was Barid's field of expertise and he took charge with an effortless air of authority even though Ishamael outranked him in every way imaginable. Of course, Asmodean reflected, it was only possible because Ishamael let him, to demonstrate his battlefield knowledge. But he couldn't help wondering, witnessing the way the communication between the two men evolved over the course of the meeting until they were finishing each others' sentences or arguing their points with mere fragments of sentences, sometimes not even complete words…

Asmodean couldn't help wondering whether it would be better for him to be long gone by the time they remembered his presence.

Unfortunately, that was not an option; he wasn't exactly there for fun in the first place. Channelling the bottle across the room, he filled his glass again.

Eventually the strategy talk was concluded. Barid seemed very satisfied with himself, and even Ishamael seemed almost in good spirits. Of course, the easy familiarity between the two former friends couldn't last… And if it came to an end sooner than Asmodean would have anticipated, perhaps it was for the better. Barid was responding to a wry remark from Ishamael — and called him Elan.

The lights seemed to go out and pure fury twisted Ishamael's face. Asmodean would have Travelled out if he hadn't suspected that channelling right now might get him killed faster than he could open a gateway. Even Barid backed away, shock and alarm in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but Ishamael cut him off.

"Don't ever call me that again." His voice shook with rage, and tiny, smoke-like tendrils of darkness flickered about him.

Barid shook his head vigorously. "I won't!" he gasped. "It was an—" He choked on whatever he had been about to say, then went on in a slightly hoarse voice, "It will not happen again, I swear!"

A heartbeat. Another. Then the shadows receded again. Asmodean released a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding; it appeared they were all going to leave this room alive, after all. This time.

Ishamael shook his head slowly, but when he spoke, his voice held an edge like cold, Power-wrought steel. "Make very sure that it doesn't." He clasped his hands behind his back and just like that, he was the leader of the Chosen again in every inch of him; at once dispassionate and as unpredictable as a lightning storm. "Asmodean will be joining you; he is in charge of dealing with the civilians left in the conquered cities that fall under your area of responsibility for now. He will help you with the logistics." Pause. "Do not disappoint me." He shot a glance at Asmodean. "Either of you."

Asmodean shook his head and — recognising a dismissal when he heard one — ushered Barid out of the room before him. The man looked glum but had the presence of mind to obey without protesting or saying anything else that might get the both of them killed on the spot.

As he closed the door behind them, he thought he could hear the sound of glass shattering. It sounded oddly like the breaking of a heart.


End file.
